


Lie down, lie easy. Let me shipwreck in your thighs. - Choose your own adventure version

by the_worrying_kind



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Choose Your Own Ending, M/M, Thigh Holsters, but at first there was almost no smut, but now there magically is, i started off with the smuttiest intentions, slight whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-08-16 18:28:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16500500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_worrying_kind/pseuds/the_worrying_kind
Summary: "Cowboy."Napoleon can feel Illya’s lips brushing against his as the Russian speaks. There is still nothing but the ghost of breath on him, yet something in Napoleon aches desperately to be satisfied.Wait, what? Haven't I read this one before?To which the answer is both yes and no.Aka I bring you a whole new improved choose your own smut kinda fic!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [el3anorrigby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/gifts).



> I meant to write a muddy field sex fic but then didn't. But since I kinda promised [ el3anorrigby ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/) one, I went ahead and wrote one for her birthday a while back. 
> 
> Not to spoil anything, but in the original version, there is a rather rude cock block ending. If you like that kinda thing (which will keep the rating in the teen and up ball park) then go ahead and read chapters 1 and 2. If you want the smut, then read 1, skip 2, and have your porn in the third chapter.

Everything is blurry and out of focus. Napoleon blinks and squints as he feels something wet trickle and pool in the corner of his eye. He raises a hand to touch the wetness and is relieved to see only a minimal amount of blood on his fingers. So, it’s just rain after all. Napoleon can feel the beginnings of a massive headache creeping in but at least he’s not bleeding half to death. Through the ringing in his ears, Napoleon hears harsh words barked loudly but he finds the voice irrationally soothing. 

“Agent down. Requesting immediate extraction.”

There’s a short burst of static and then Napoleon’s world narrows to  a hulking figure. Napoleon feels himself instantly relax under the canopy of his giant partner.

“Look at me, Cowboy.” Napoleon’s whole face is cocooned by the largest hands he has ever seen. His head gets tilted up, and Napoleon is sure he is drowning because all he can see are the endless pools of blue. For a moment, he is almost weightless as he lets the calm waters envelop him.

A sigh of relief brings Napoleon back from the depths and he answers it with a gasped breath of his own.

“Good. Where are you hurt?” the voice sounds gentler now but with an immensely heavy undercurrent of worry. But Napoleon isn’t concerned; no need to be with Illya there. The realization itself should worry Napoleon but he’s way past that point, has been for countless weeks, even months, by now.

Napoleon struggles to sit up but Illya is quick to move his hands down to Napoleon’s shoulders in order to hold him down. Losing those hands on his face makes Napoleon ache more than anything else he’s suffered so far. Napoleon pushes the feeling down and takes a mental note of his body. He can feel and move all his extremities, which should mean that nothing’s broken.

“I think I’m fine, Peril,” Napoleon says but can’t be absolutely sure.

He tries to sit up again, and this time, Illya lets him but not without watching Napoleon with shattering intensity. It really is hard to tell if Napoleon is bleeding somewhere since he’s wearing black and his tactical gear is soaked by the rain. Napoleon runs a sluggish hand across himself and flinches as his exploratory hand brushes his thigh. Illya’s hands join his in an instant and there most definitely is blood on Napoleon’s fingers this time. The realization is followed by a Russian curse and Illya’s hands become a blur of movement.

Napoleon is quite certain that the slight bleeding isn’t a real problem. Sure, his thigh hurts, and it will probably be all kinds of black and blue tomorrow, but Illya is not heeding any of Napoleon’s attempts to make him stop. Illya runs exploratory fingers all over Napoleon’s thigh, and they brush dangerously close to where Napoleon has dreamed of his partner touching him for what seems like a torturous eternity. Then Illya’s fingers come across the small tear in the fabric of Napoleon’s pants. The American flinches partly in pain, but mostly at the shock of Illya’s fingers against his naked skin. Without further ceremony, those sure hands rip the tear wider for Illya’s inspection. Napoleon is absentmindedly grateful that none of his nicer pants are subject to the brutish treatment.

Napoleon is quick to realize how very unhurt he is and how he has rather lost the control of his mental faculties. He can feel his body, left unsupervised by his blurry mind, all too eagerly reacting to Illya’s touch. The visual of that blond head between his legs is not helping things in the slightest. Illya’s fingers follow the rip until his progress gets hindered by Napoleon’s thigh holster. He skims along the sensitive inside of Napoleon’s thigh in search of the clasp. Something in Napoleon breaks then and he can’t quite bite back a desperate moan.

The American freezes like a deer in headlights and Illya’s movements halt immediately. Napoleon attempts to seize the opportunity to squirm out of his partner’s reach before he has the chance to embarrass himself further. He struggles to get traction on the slippery grass but it’s mostly in vain.

“Like I said, Peril, I’m fine,” Napoleon tries to reason with him but the insistent Russian is quick to stop Napoleon’s pathetic escape attempts.

Illya doubles his efforts of prodding and probing Napoleon’s leg in search of the wound. The stubborn crease of Illya’s brow tells Napoleon his partner is hard set on making sure the American isn’t bleeding to death. He seems oblivious to the fact that the reason he can’t find the wound is because there really isn’t one. The small scratch is all there is and the slow trickle of blood is the worst of it. But there is, however, an insistent flow of blood that is making itself towards Napoleon’s crotch with every brush of Illya’s hands.

Clearly struggling to find the fastenings of the holster, Illya’s frustration is starting to show. He is getting slightly rougher in his ministrations and when a persistent hand curls around the strap of the holster and gives it a yank, the bloodied knuckles come only an inch from brushing against Napoleon’s crotch. There is the hopeful ache in Napoleon’s stomach coupled with the pangs of lust at the thought. In the end, the rising panic in him wins out. With an undignified yelp, Napoleon tries to shove the other man off. It is of no use. Illya’s hands are unyieldingly sure and strong. Napoleon lets out a desperate little sound. He is also running slightly short of breath in his struggle and his gasping protests only manage to intensify the worried look on Illya’s face. Illya attacks Napoleon’s holster with new fervor to unclasp it, and Napoleon finally wrenches himself out of his grasp. He manages a few scoots away from his partner before he notices the worry  replaced by rising temper. The furrow between Illya’s eyes deepens, which is a sure sign that Napoleon is in trouble. Illya opens his mouth but then his eyes land on the tenting in Napoleon’s pants that the American can’t quite hide. Illya’s expression seems to go through about a million different emotions before going carefully blank. To Napoleon’s horror, Illya doesn’t stop staring at Napoleon’s source of shame.

There is a tense moment. Napoleon croaks out a weak apology with a desperate attempt at one of his more disarming smirks. Illya’s finger ticks once, and it’s the only warning Napoleon gets, before he is hauled in by one hand around his thigh holster and the other around his opposite thigh. He is pulled roughly against his kneeling partner with impressive ease. The movement causes his shirt to ride up but despite the discomfort of cold, wet mud against his newly exposed skin, the manhandling makes Napoleon’s traitorous dick twitch excitedly. He can’t help but let out a groan which seems to be equal parts frustration, embarrassment and gut wrenching lust.

Illya’s hands travel along Napoleon’s thighs once more but considerably slower this time. Feeling Illya’s touch skim over the crease where his thigh meets his ass, makes Napoleon’s whole body shiver. He fights the increasing urge to wrap his thighs around his partner and pull the other man closer to him. Illya’s eyes seem to be boring through him and for a brief second, Napoleon is almost certain Illya can read his every illicit thought. Illya seems to be carefully cataloguing even the smallest shift in his partner’s expression, making Napoleon feel utterly naked under the intensity of those eyes. Napoleon wants to say something or reach for Illya or do anything at all to break the tension. But he doesn’t. He is rooted in place by that gaze and can do nothing but stare back.

Illya is so close that Napoleon can finally fully appreciate how long his lashes are. How delicately they curve upwards and how softly they kiss Peril’s skin as the other man blinks. For a moment, Napoleon is certain he could happily spend an eternity counting every single eyelash. It seems paradoxical that this powerhouse of a Russian, probably the deadliest man Napoleon has ever met, should be this breathtakingly, delicately beautiful. Napoleon’s mind is reeling and he can’t quite decide what to do so he just lies there; half deaf from the blood rushing in his ears, dumb and so turned on that it  _hurts._

“You are sure you are not hurt?” Illya finally says.

The way the words are half murmured makes Napoleon swallow hard, and he barely manages a small nod. Illya’s hands are burning through Napoleon’s pants while his own hands are fisted uselessly in the grass. There is not enough to grip properly and he is mostly clawing at mud. He scarcely dares to breathe, just stares at Illya’s mouth a little wide eyed. Maybe he hit his head a lot harder than he initially thought? Because said mouth is smirking down at him and closing in fast. Napoleon fights to keep his eyes open but then Illya’s lips are so close to his that Napoleon can feel the little puffs of Illya’s breath against his skin. He’s close enough for Napoleon to smell him so he does. Lets his senses be flooded by Illya’s scent. At first, he mostly smells of the sickly sweet coppery of someone else’s blood, gunpowder and sweat. Of death and power but also of  _Illya_. The combination is pure danger, which should worry Napoleon but, unsurprisingly, it doesn’t. The lethal mixture does nothing to sound the alarm in his mind. It simply makes him feel completely safe and protected.

The first brush of Illya’s mouth along Napoleon’s cheek is a shock. It is sensory overload and the way it makes Napoleon’s whole world spin, forces his eyes closed. Napoleon should be embarrassed by how much it is affecting him but he can’t find it in himself to care. Peril always says he’s reckless and in this moment Napoleon revels in it. He just gasps and claws at the ground in desperate attempt to find something to hold onto. God, but he  _aches_ for Illya. He fights all his urges that demand him to reach and claim and  _take._ Instead, he lies still as Illya’s lips inch their way closer to his mouth. Napoleon lets himself enjoy the scrape of Illya’s stubble against his clean shaven cheek; each prickle sending tiny sparks of sensation through him. Napoleon can’t remember a time when he had been this on edge while simultaneously being somehow utterly content.

There’s a soft murmur of  _Cowboy_ and Napoleon can feel Illya’s lips brushing against his as he speaks. The nickname seems to be a question and an adoration wrapped in one infuriatingly perfect breath that sends shivers throughout Napoleon’s body. He arches against the solid warmth draped on top of him and raises his chin in a vain chase for that mouth. There is still nothing but the ghost of breath on him and something in Napoleon aches to be satisfied.

There is a sudden pang of overwhelming  _want_ and Napoleon finally snaps. Ripping out tufts of grass and undoubtedly smearing mud all over Illya, Napoleon makes a wild grab for him.  _God_ but finally running his hands over the lean lines of Illya’s body is exactly everything Napoleon had ever imagined it to be like. He uses his own strength to draw Illya in while surging up blindly. Napoleon feels downright giddy in his anticipation of at long last getting his taste of the other man.

Any moment now and those lips will be on his.

Any moment now and Illya will claim him.

Any moment now and Napoleon will claim Illya.

And oh, how he intents to utterly  _ruin_ Peril.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The less smuttier ending

To Napoleon’s absolute, devastating disappointment, Illya’s hot breath is gone and there’s a hand halting Napoleon’s movements. His mind is losing the game of catch up and Napoleon is left completely baffled. For the first time that day, Napoleon isn’t enjoying his partner’s manhandling even one bit.

“Hear that?” Illya asks.

Napoleon has absolutely no idea what he is referring to. For a moment, Napoleon is sure he has made some utterly ridiculously pathetic sound that has made Illya change his mind about kissing him. He is barely aware of anything part from Illya. A moment ago there was no ache in his skull or wet ground under his back. There had only been the breath against his lips, the solid warmth under his hands and the promise of fulfillment. There had only been Illya.

Napoleon’s dream world gets shattered by the insistent whirring of the blades of their evac chopper. For a moment he’s left dazed and alone on the ground and the rain is falling on his face unabated. As he once again squints through the wetness invading his eyes, he is greeted by the sight of his partner’s outstretched hand.

“Let’s get you home, Cowboy,” Illya says as he helps Napoleon to his shaky feet. As he feels his partner’s steadying hand at his side, Napoleon finally looks at Illya. Underneath the speckle of blood and mud, Illya’s cheeks are flushed and there is the small secret smile that he only shares with Napoleon on his lips. In that moment, Napoleon knows for certain that Illya is the only home he will ever need.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The smuttier ending

Napoleon isn’t quite sure why, but when Illya’s mouth finally finds his, the American is surprised by how soft those lips are. Illya’s expression is usually sullen; his mouth a hard line of contempt. Now that it is soft and relaxed, even pliant, against Napoleon’s searching lips, Napoleon feels like he is conquering some uncharted territory. Wonders briefly,  who else has had the privilege of exploring the soft and vulnerable curve of those lips.

Napoleon is brought back to the present by the first flick of Illya’s tongue against his mouth. Illya is asking for permission with small delicate licks that make Napoleon’s toes curl in his soaked boots. The wet fabric of his socks reminds Napoleon of all the very unnecessary clothing they are both still wearing. He is dead set on rectifying matters but then Illya suckles on his lower lip, before gently biting it, and Napoleon promptly forgets every rational thought he has ever had. He moans shamelessly and Illya is quick to capitalize on Napoleon’s open mouth. The maddening little kitten licks get replaced by an insistent tongue seeking out Napoleon’s own. Their tongues brush and curl against each other as Illya lets out the hungriest small sounds that Napoleon is more than happy to try and drown out with his own needy moans. Without even a moment’s hesitation, Napoleon’s tongue follows Illya’s retreating one inside the Russian’s mouth in search of those delicious noises.

The sensation of finally being allowed to taste Illya; to fully explore that mouth is everything Napoleon ever dreamed it would be. It’s all encompassing. Napoleon feels drunk with it. Lost in it. Downright _hungry_ for it to the very pit of his soul.

Napoleon wraps his thighs around Illya as he pulls the other man as close to him as possible. Illya complies easily and braces on top of Napoleon on his elbows. The solid warmth and weight of him sends yet another spike of lust though Napoleon. He clutches tighter and sucks on Illya’s tongue with abandon. He has never felt anything as satisfying as Illya’s deep moan that reverberates through them both. Wanting Illya closer still, Napoleon clutches desperately at Illya’s wet turtleneck. The need to feel Illya’s naked skin intensifies until he is forced to break their kiss. Napoleon has a moment to lament the loss of that mouth on him but then he opens his eyes to take his partner in. Illya is panting beautifully above him; his strong chest pushing against Napoleon’s with every breath. As glorious as watching Illya is, Napoleon needs to feel that without the layers of clothing separating them.

“Off. Get this off. Now, please,” Napoleon pleads as he claws uselessly at the wet material.

Illya nods silently, his kiss swollen mouth parted around his heavy breaths. When he pushes up and off, Napoleon makes a desperate noise at the loss of contact. Illya shushes him as he runs those giant hands of his along Napoleon’s body. That placates the American enough that he is content once more just watching Illya. He is ridiculously tall even kneeling. Napoleon stares dumbly as those long fingers find the hem of the soaked shirt. The black fabric clings to Illya’s lean form and Napoleon is briefly deeply, irrationally jealous of that lucky turtleneck. As Illya finally peels the damn shirt up to reveal the first sliver of his skin, Napoleon can’t help but make a needy little sound. His thighs twitch and tighten around the other man as his own fingers itch to help.

Napoleon’s eyes struggle in the dimming light to make out every detail of the revealed skin. Illya is being deliberately, teasingly slow and Napoleon tries his best not to drool too openly. He aches to sink his teeth in each bump of Illya’s abs and lick his way down the trail of hair that is making its enticing way into Illya’s pants. Illya finally rucks the shirt high enough to reveal his nipples and Napoleon would love nothing more than to use his tongue to soothe the tight nubs that are undoubtedly peaked because of the cold. He yearns to make them harden for a whole other reason and wonders briefly what kind of sounds biting the little nubs could draw out of the taller man. Illya clearly struggles to get the soaked fabric the rest of the way off and he seems to get stuck in it. The wet squelching sound that the garment makes as it’s peeled off, causes Illya honest to god laugh out loud. The little burst of happiness makes Napoleon’s heart skip a beat. Illya reemerges with his wet hair sticking up wildly and an honest, delighted smile on his handsome face. With that, Napoleon is completely and utterly _ruined._

He makes a mad, wild grab for Illya, who braces himself just in time to avoid crushing the man underneath him. Napoleon runs greedy hands over Illya’s skin and takes pleasure in the muddy streaks his hands leave in their wake. They look like brands on Illya’s pale skin; like Napoleon has somehow managed to lay claim on the wild powerhouse that is his partner. An animalistic urge to posses comes over him and he sinks his teeth into the inviting spot where Illya’s shoulder meets his endlessly long neck. Napoleon is sure he is leaving some marks behind, and he laments the fact that he is giving Illya even more reasons to cover himself up with a stupid turtleneck tomorrow. But they will both know what’s underneath the fabric and they will both remember the wanton sounds Illya made underneath Napoleon’s mouth.

Napoleon skims every available inch of Illya and commits every little detail to memory. The way his spine dips. The way he gets goosebumps when Napoleon’s nails rake ever so slightly against the swell of his shoulder blades. The way his strong muscles bunch and relax when Napoleon hits a spot that tickles. The endless constellation of his scars. Some small, some rough, some obvious and others better healed. One scar makes Napoleon’s breath catch and he struggles momentarily to swallow. The scar in question is right next to Illya’s heart. It is an ugly reminder that the game they play could end very quickly and very messily for either one of them. Napoleon presses his palm against Illya’s chest and takes immense comfort at the feeling of Illya’s strong heart beating, even if a little wildly, underneath Napoleon’s hand.

To Napoleon’s dismay, Illya is pulling away again. He is about to protest but then Illya’s cold hands find their way underneath Napoleon’s shirt. Even with the rain and the cold, getting naked sounds pretty damn good to him. They work in unison to rid Napoleon of his shirt and Illya is considered enough to tuck it and his own turtleneck between Napoleon and the cold ground. Napoleon arches to give Illya room and the movement brings their naked chests together. The contact feels heavenly and Napoleon can’t wait to have all of Illya pressed against him.

Illya seems to have a similar plan and there are deft fingers working Napoleon’s pants open. Those big hands shove and pull at the clingy, stubborn fabric. Luckily, there are no soggy pants in this world that would ever come even close to competing in a game of wills with the bullheaded Russian. A thigh holster, however, just might.

There is a lot of Russian swearing as Illya tackles Napoleon’s thigh holster once more. It really isn’t a complicated thing but the waning light coupled with the frantic race to get naked seem to be formidable opponents even to the Red Peril himself. With an impressive grunt and some truly magnificent manhandling, Illya manages to rid Napoleon of his left boot and free one of his legs. His pants end up shoved around mid-thigh of his right leg. It seems the American-made contraption remained undefeated after all. Thigh holster one, horny Russian zero.

Napoleon should feel ridiculous lying in the mud almost naked but he can scarcely care about anything part from the hot mouth on his thigh. Illya uses the bunched fabric around the holster to spread Napoleon’s thighs wider and trails biting kisses along the edge of the garment. Napoleon’s breath hitches and his thighs spasm involuntarily as Illya’s mouth explores the soft inside of his thigh. He is slightly ticklish there and the sensations make him squirm. He is also very sensitive and the rough scrape of Illya’s stubble sends a jolt of pleasure straight to his dick. There is nothing on this earth that could have stopped the wrecked moan leaving Napoleon’s throat when Illya bends his leg back to kiss along the crease where his thigh meets his ass. Then Illya scrapes his teeth along the sensitive skin, making Napoleon’s cock throb desperately. The Russian urges Napoleon’s leg higher before hoisting it to rest on one of those broad shoulders. Illya’s hair tickles Napoleon’s bare skin as his mouth explores further. Illya’s other hand is running all over the bare leg; leaving behind the same kind of muddy smudges as Napoleon left all over his upper body. Napoleon welcomes every single one of them and offers the rest of himself for Illya to mark. To claim. To utterly debauch. To _own_.

Illya’s mouth is making its way closer and closer to where Napoleon needs it the most. The rub of his stubble sends little sparks of pleasure down Napoleon’s spine but nothing compares to the feeling of that hot mouth tasting every inch of Napoleon’s skin. Illya licks a long stripe along the crease of his thigh before mouthing at the base of Napoleon’s drooling dick. The American’s back arches at the contact and he is once again left clawing uselessly at the muddy ground. He watches as Illya works his way up Napoleon’s shaft with the lightest drag of his lips, only to press a teasing, almost delicate, kiss on the tip. Even in the low light, Illya’s lips glisten invitingly. Illya looks up at Napoleon as he deliberately slips his tongue out to wet his lush bottom lip. Napoleon can’t help but bite his own in turn while his mind tries desperately to catch up. Then Illya parts his lips and lets the head slip inside and Napoleon’s mind goes blissfully blank. Napoleon makes a strangled sound and uses all of his willpower not to thrust in the welcoming warmth. Struggling to control his hips and to get a handle on his breathing, Napoleon gulps in desperate breaths. Instead of giving Napoleon any sort of respite, Illya twirls his tongue around the head before hollowing his damned cheeks as he _sucks_.

Illya looks obscene with his mouth stretched around Napoleon’s girth. He seems more than content to slowly inch his way further down until Napoleon is forced to break the eye contact. Watching Illya’s heated, half lidded gaze as he kept swallowing Napoleon down with the determination of a man - or worse yet, a Russian spy - on a mission, was simply too much. Napoleon throws his head back in a desperate attempt to let the wet ground cool him down a bit. Illya pulls up with an audible slurp and a satisfied moan that are destined to feature in every and all of Napoleon’s future sexual fantasies. He hums like he has never had anything better in his mouth than Napoleon’s copiously drooling cock. Then, in a swift motion that sends a tremor through Napoleon’s whole body, Illya takes him far enough to hit the back of his throat. Napoleon can feel it against his sensitive tip and then Illya fucking _swallows_ around him. Napoleon’s thigh twitches on Illya’s shoulder as he is slowly rendered to a withering mess at Illya’s complete mercy. Every slide of those lips, every twist of that clever tongue, leave Napoleon reeling. He is babbling incoherently as he becomes utterly undone under Illya. And nothing has ever felt as good as relinquishing control to his partner.

Napoleon loses all sense of time, so it feels both like an eternity and yet no time at all that he knows he’s about to come. He utters out a warning but Illya simply moans happily around the length in his mouth. The vibrations make Napoleon choke on nothing as he gasps helplessly. One of Illya’s endlessly long fingers chooses that moment to rub against the tender skin behind Napoleon’s balls and the added stimulus hurls him over the edge with a shout. He is pretty sure Illya makes an appreciative noise of his own as the Russian works Napoleon through his climax. His ears are ringing again and his whole body feels completely lose and limp.

Napoleon cracks his eyes open enough to look at Illya. He is frantically working his own pants open and the sight of his hard length makes Napoleon’s spent cock twitch. Illya is beyond gorgeous all over it seems. Napoleon briefly laments not getting that perfect cock in him but knows they couldn’t very well have used mud as lube anyway. Illya takes himself in hand and looks down at Napoleon, who is spread wantonly on the muddy ground beneath him. Illya’s voice is throaty and deep as he says something Napoleon’s fuzzy mind can’t be bothered to translate. He watches as Illya strokes himself and wishes he could find the strength to help his partner out. He hooks one thigh lazily around Illya who curses and comes all over Napoleon with a beautiful, broken little sob.

Napoleon nudges Illya with his legs until the other man collapses heavily on top of him. They trade lazy kisses while their breathing evens out. Even with the Russian blanket on top of him, it doesn't take Napoleon long to start shivering. The ground is cold after all and everything around them is wet.

Illya’s head perks up and Napoleon watches him tilt his head like an adorable giant puppy.

“Hear that?” he asks.

At first, Napoleon doesn’t hear anything at all, but then he starts to make out the insistent whirring of the blades of their evac chopper. For a moment he’s left dazed and alone on the ground and the rain is falling on his face unabated. As he once again squints through the wetness invading his eyes, he is greeted by the sight of his partner’s outstretched hand.

“Let’s get you home, Cowboy,” Illya says as he helps Napoleon to his shaky feet. They take a moment to realize that not only are they wet, muddy and messy beyond recognition, they are also more than a little naked. Illya fastens his pants but makes no attempt to put his wet shirt back on. Napoleon contemplates if it’d be easier to try and get his own pants finally all the way off or to shimmy his freed leg back in. With a resolute sigh, and some much welcomed help from Illya, he opts for the latter. Their shirts lie on the muddy ground and Illya fishes out his turtleneck from the pool of mud. He wrings out as much of the water as he can before draping the heavy fabric across Napoleon’s shivering shoulders.

Napoleon rests his weary head on Illya’s bare shoulder as they stand and wait for their helicopter. He briefly muses what a sight they must be to their rescuers. Illya is shirtless, tall and proud; magnificent enough to make all those Soviet propaganda posters pale in comparison. And Napoleon, with a soaked turtleneck draped haphazardly on his back, pants ripped and probably a little undone with only one shoe. Since when was he the least stylish of the two, he wonders. However, Napoleon is quick to realize that he doesn’t care one bit as long as he has Illya by his side.

**Author's Note:**

> As always I owe my thanks to [ kaijusizefeels ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaijusizefeels/) for being an awesome beta ♥
> 
> Fic inspired by a conversation with [ el3anorrigby ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/)about Napoleon's thighs and that damned holster. 
> 
> Title stolen from a poem by Dylan Thomas.


End file.
